Finding the Worth
by Norah Rose
Summary: Nothing was ever easy with Sherlock Holmes. Not being his flat mate. Not being his friend. Not being in love with him.


**Author's Note: **Hi, guys! I don't even know what this is. Really. I guess it can best be described as procrastination for NaNoWriMo, which I have foolishly decided to attempt. Yeah, this is what happens when I'm not doing that. Anyway, enjoy and please do let me know what you think. Also find me on Twitter, if you'd like, at SkyyTweet!

* * *

Nothing was ever easy with Sherlock Holmes. He played screeching violin at all hours of the night, insulted everyone he came in contact with, insulted _John_ daily, insisted on having tea made for him, _never _did the shopping, hardly slept, hardly ate, ran headfirst into danger on a regular basis, did dangerous experiments in the flat, left body parts scattered about, didn't bother to clean anything ever, retreated into his mind for days, yelled at John out of pure frustration, ignored the basic rules of social situations, and somehow, by some terrible, cruel miracle, still managed to make John Watson fall in love with him.

No, nothing was ever easy with Sherlock Holmes.

Not being his flat mate.

Not being his friend.

Not being in love with him.

The revelation had come to John unexpectedly. The case had been a whirlwind. Sherlock had rounded too many corners without John and suddenly found himself alone, in the arms of the suspect, knife pressed firmly against his neck.

John had reached Sherlock, stopped dead in his tracks, eyes open and fearful only for a moment, and shot the man where he stood, killing him before he had a chance to so much as nick Sherlock.

As the suspect crumpled to the ground and Sherlock's eyes met John's, John had thought to himself, _"God, I want to kiss him."_

It had been so ridiculous, so very out of his character, so very _gay_, and yet it was true. John had known it immediately then. He loved Sherlock. Really and truly. He had loved Sherlock for a very long time.

He would kill for the man as many times as he needed to, with no hesitation at all, and in their dark and twisted world, what else was that than love?

But John hadn't mentioned it. Of course Sherlock didn't return his feelings. He _couldn't _return the feelings. And even if he were capable, he was _Sherlock._ Mad, stunning, eccentric, brilliant Sherlock. And John… was John.

He wore jumpers and stayed in on the weekends, and sipped at hot tea while lounging on the sofa. He was just John. Nothing special at all.

So instead of taking the detective in his arms, clutching to him as if his life depended on it, confessing that if he had been hurt he didn't know what he would've done, and pressing their lips together, John had simply given a small smile and said, "Alright then? Not hurt?"

"Fine."

And that was that.

John had pushed the thought away. It was the thrill of the case, surely. The endorphins. Nothing more. He was able to convince himself of this for a while.

* * *

John realized again several weeks later in the flat.

"John, tea."

"No."

"John."

John had worked a long day at the clinic and been stood up at the bar by a girl that, honestly, he hadn't truly even been interested in. Still, it hadn't been a good day.

"Make your own damned tea, Sherlock. I'm reading."

"John."

"No."

Sherlock heaved a great sigh, but didn't move to make himself a drink.

"She was worthless anyway, you know," he said after a moment.

"Hm?" John barely glanced up from his book.

"The woman. The wretched woman you were set to meet. Be glad that she didn't show."

"I'm not even going to ask how you've figured out any of this," John said, shaking his head and turning the page.

"She wasn't worthy of you, John," Sherlock said in reply.

The warmth blossomed in John's chest before he could stop it. He set the book on his lap and met Sherlock's eyes for a moment. They shone with an icy grey that settled over John's heart and threatened never to leave.

"Yes, well. We'll never know, will we?" John said, unable to hide the annoyance that he still felt towards being stood up. This wasn't a school dance. She could've easily just called.

"No, I certainly do know. For so many reasons. She wasn't worthy. I would've broken you up after only a single date. Don't fret."

John couldn't hold back a huff of laugh. "Broken us up after one date, eh? Been planning this?"

"Only if she wasn't worthy."

"You've broken up all of my relationships," John pointed out.

"None of them were worthy," Sherlock replied shortly.

John's heart fluttered again. He ignored it and stood. "I'll make the damned tea," he said gruffly, walking into the kitchen.

John was able to ignore whatever these pesky feelings were for weeks. Yes, sometimes Sherlock would leap out of his chair after having an idea and John would think to himself, _He's really rather beautiful_, but mostly he was fine. It was all fine.

* * *

The feelings became harder to ignore, however, when he was lying on the ground, bleeding out quickly from a stab wound in his chest.

He could hardly remember how he'd gotten here. Mostly. He and Sherlock had been running after a suspect, turned different corners, and been separated. And now John was on the ground, clutching desperately at his chest, trying to slow the bleeding.

It didn't matter though. He was a doctor. He knew how this worked. He couldn't even feel the pain anymore. That wasn't good. And everything was growing colder. Interesting. And definitely not good. He was so tired and suddenly staying awake seemed completely impossible. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, for a short rest.

As soon as he had started to fall deeper, a voice in his ear had pulled him back out. "John! John, oh god. Open your eyes John. Falling asleep will mean sure death. You've lost entirely too much blood. John! You open your eyes. Open them now."

John obeyed. Sherlock was sitting beside him, leaning over directly over John's face. His hands were pressed to John's chest, but he couldn't feel them. Sherlock was so close. John wished that he could kiss him, but he couldn't find the strength to move.

"Wish I… could kiss," John managed, coughing, as he tasted blood in his mouth. He was dying, and that meant that any filter that he usually had was entirely gone.

Sherlock gave him a confused look, just for a moment, before he was focused back on the task at hand. "Don't speak, John. Don't try to speak. I've called Lestrade. An ambulance is on the way. It's very close."

"Think I'm dying," John choked out, ignoring Sherlock's orders not to speak. This was important. He needed to talk to Sherlock. Beautiful, wonderful, amazing Sherlock who had brought so much light to his life.

Sherlock shook his head stubbornly. "No, you're not. You, John Watson, are not dying. You have survived far graver injuries than this. You will not succumb to a knife wound given to you by a low-life thief. He is not worthy of being the man who ends you."

John started to laugh slightly but it exploded into a violent, wheezing cough. "Not worthy," he muttered. "_I'm_ not worthy." And then the darkness was back and stronger than ever. He couldn't fight it now. His eyes refused to stay open.

"John! John, stay awake. Please, John! John!"

The shouts faded away as the blackness overtook him.

* * *

John woke to the bright, cold lights of a hospital room. He knew exactly where he was, and he knew what had happened. John Watson knew what it was to be injured. He had plenty of practice.

His throat was painfully dry and when he tried to lean up a bit to look around the room a pain shot deep through his chest. He leaned back against the pillow and settled for turning his head to both sides.

On the left there were flowers. God, so many flowers. He didn't even like them. How ridiculous. What would he do with so many flowers? Perhaps Sherlock could use them for experiments…

Sherlock.

John turned too quickly to the right, sending a pain through his chest again, but it didn't matter, because Sherlock was there, slumped in an armchair, asleep against the armrest.

A leather armchair in a hospital… John smiled a bit. Mycroft's doing, probably. The Holmes family certainly had an air for extravagance.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered but he didn't wake immediately. John knew that if he was asleep, he had likely been here for a long time. For a moment John simply stared at the man before him. His curls were unruly and there were dark bags under his eyes. Blood covered the outfit that he had been wearing during John's injury. He hadn't even bothered to change.

As if Sherlock could sense that John had woken, he snapped awake, his eyes wide.

After a moment of blinking away the sleep, Sherlock spoke, sounding as steady as if he hadn't been asleep at all. "John. How do you feel?"

John started to speak but found that his throat was full of fire. Or at least, it felt that way. He tried to motion for water. Sherlock caught on quickly and grabbed at a cup on the table beside him. He led the straw carefully to John's lips, and his eyes never wavered from his friend. John took several deep gulps of water before he found speech possible.

"You were sleeping," he said, his voice coming out small and raspy.

"Yes," Sherlock responded.

"You never sleep."

"Everyone sleeps, John."

"You don't."

Sherlock Holmes was not the type of man that blushed, but John could've sworn he'd seen it flash across his cheeks.

"Sometimes I sleep."

"Not very often," John compromised. "And never when I can see you."

"I don't like being vulnerable," Sherlock said, as if this was the simplest idea in the world.

"I think I've got you beat when it comes to vulnerability at this point."

Sherlock smirked. "You do."

They fell into relaxed silence for a moment and John leaned back against the pillow, drawing deep breaths.

"Are you in pain?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward to peer at him inquisitively.

"Fine," John said, but his chest was heaving with every breath.

"Don't lie."

"I'm not," he said, but his breath left him as a hiss as he took another breath.

Sherlock stared at him accusingly. "Okay, fine. Yes. Yes, I'm in pain, Sherlock."

Sherlock started to leave, presumably to speak to a nurse about an increase of pain medication, but John found himself reaching out for him.

"Don't go," he said, his voice small as he found Sherlock's hand and took it in his own. "Please don't go."

"But the pain," Sherlock started.

"It's fine. Fine," John breathed. "Stay."

Sherlock watched him for a moment, cataloguing his actions, before gripping John's hand tighter.

And Sherlock did stay, and he kept John's hand in his own. And he didn't question it. And it was all fine.

Maybe this was their relationship morphing into something more. Maybe it was both of them admitting something to themselves. Maybe it was the simple comfort of a friend. It wasn't clear.

It never was, not with Sherlock.

But the pain in John's chest was like the pain of loving Sherlock, and it was worth it.

Oh, it was worth it.


End file.
